


The Guardian

by buckles



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:56:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckles/pseuds/buckles
Summary: Lana wakes up in the middle of the night after an eventful honeymoon.





	The Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> (This is intended as an epilogue piece intended for a longer work detailing Lana and the events that happen while her and the IA's are on their honeymoon, but actually works as an independent piece.)

Home.

Lana Beniko sits at the end of the bed, legs crossed, letting the conditioned air from the duct above cascade down and prickle the hairs of her bare shoulders, stirring the scent of sweat and Kalsunor's finest in the air, a finger still sitting in her glass on the bedside table. 

Somehow Lana's not all that surprised to be back here. After everything that happened, she still chose her, the wayward Sith, the Minister, the exile. After searching the stars. After the dread Emperor invaded her mind, Cipher Nine, The Outlander, the Commander, that... ridiculous fool, somehow, the lynchpin of it _all_, still chose Lana Beniko above all to be her wife.

The rain outside draws thin streaks across the glass of the Kaas City apartment. Outside, the spires of the Citadel lurk in the blue slate rainclouds; city lights, the red eyeshine of vine cats in the Kaas jungle, catching the light and shimmering, just like those deep red eyes; the dark, blue skin; the idea of laying back down and keeping each other awake until the dim light of morning reluctantly showing above the horizon and responsibilities prod their way back into their lives anew. 

No, it's too late in the day to meditate on such passions.

Lana turns and picks up the glass, looking at the light shining through the faceted cuts, thinking back briefly to the events that interrupted their honeymoon. 

Beside the glass, her personal datapad. The Force is a funny thing, slight and subtle, lurking just behind thought. The trick of it all, to make the Force serve you, is to harness it without thinking; to reach, and find yourself holding; to talk, and find yourself convincing; to swing, and find yourself connecting. 

To write, and see the future? So it was that Lana occasionally played with poetry, the words -- more often than not -- uncannily prophetic in their ambiguity, the hint of truth suddenly seeming to emerge beneath the text.

She downs the last of the bourbon, feeling the fire burn and stir in her chest. 

A blank note on the datapad, and she begins to write, the 'pad responding with haptics and soft beeping, the lines forming into verse.

"You're not _working_, are you?" 

Red eyes peek out from behind thin, sleepy slits. 

"Sorry." Lana clicks the pad on to mute and smiles back over her shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

Without protest, she rolls over. Underneath the roar of the rain, the stray crack of lighting outside, and the hum of the air-conditioning, lay quiet, somnolent breaths from across the bed. Lana saves the note and sets the pad down gingerly, lifting her legs back into bed.

_Each sun across the galaxy goes out_  
_From far beyond the stars the hunger grows_  
_Yet still the whitefang stalks across the snows_  
_Each sun across the galaxy goes out_

_From far beyond the stars the hunger grows_  
_In mirror's shard a single bane of light_  
_Will usher unto us a ceaseless night_  
_From far beyond the stars the hunger grows_

_Yet still the whitefang stalks across the snows_  
_Her prey lie scattered dead across the sky_  
_For now our final death she will deny_  
_Yet still the whitefang stalks across the snows_

_-L.B., 24 P.S.C. _


End file.
